


Day Two (Of The Rest Of Your Life)

by orphan_account



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: M/M, Non-Consensual Groping, Prison Sex, Rape, Sorry Not Sorry, daredevil kinkmeme, pure and utter trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4238619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt Murdock's second day in prison doesn't exactly go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day Two (Of The Rest Of Your Life)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [staying up to hear the show](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4230672) by [bawdy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bawdy/pseuds/bawdy). 



> This is a fill for a prompt on the [Daredevil kinkmeme.](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=5045192#cmt5045192)
> 
> I did as much research as I could on the corrections system, but there are a lot of prisons, and they're all run differently. In the comics, Matt was sent to Rikers and Fisk was there, but Rikers is only used to hold inmates awaiting trial or serving under a year of time. In this fic, Matt was refused bond and sent to Rikers to await his trial, something that could take anywhere from a few months to a few years. So only a short period of time has passed since Matt was arrested, charged, had his initial appearance before a judge, and transferred to Rikers island.
> 
> I handwaved most of Matt's day, as well- since he's new, he wouldn't have a work detail assigned, he wouldn't have college classes, or any other program that usually keeps inmates busy. He also doesn't have access to commissary yet, so he can't buy better food than what the prison has to offer (which is notoriously bad). I also handwaved their security level, because maximum security inmates are always housed alone. Close security is the step below that, where there's usually two inmates to a cell.

Matt woke to his entire body aching, sprawled face-first on his bunk with his legs hanging off the side. His ears felt like they were packed with cotton, unable to process most of the sounds coming to him, everything washing over him in a dull roar. He focused, trying to cut through the haze, and realized he was hearing the clang of hands hitting the barred cell doors up and down the block. The correctional officers were calling the morning count. 

He fisted a hand into the thin pad of his mattress. His blanket had disappeared somewhere last night during the- Well. It was probably on the floor. He raised his face and inhaled, but all he could smell was the overwhelming scent of Fisk's sweat and... Other fluids. He gagged. He vaguely remembered stumbling out of his bunk and using a fair portion of his only toilet roll to clean up the mess dribbling down his thighs, Fisk's eyes on him the entire time. Passing out had been a blessing. 

"Let's go!" an officer yelled as a buzzer sounded; Matt flinched in surprise, hands flying up to cover his ears as it deafened him, cutting through his brain like a hot knife. It stopped, but his ears kept ringing, and he drifted for a moment, unable to move, until someone touched his shoulder. He flinched again. 

"... have to get up, Matthew," came Fisk's voice, the beginning of his sentence lost to the ringing. He felt the air flowing a little more freely through the cell and realized the door must have slid back to let them out. He concentrated and heard the other inmates leaving their cells to stand in front of the doors in a rustle of fabric and dull thud of cheap, thin shoes on cement. He flung his hand out, groping, and shoved Fisk's hand away with a growl. 

He had no idea what time it was, he was sore, hungry, and tired. His second day was getting off to a great start. 

*

He stumbled into breakfast, another disappointing 'meal', then the morning services, where he sat on one of the many empty folding chairs and listened to an uninterested volunteer chaplain drone on about...something. He tried to pay attention, but the sounds of the prison in full swing were too much, washing over him and making it difficult to focus. It was hard enough just to find his way down the halls, sounds bouncing around every surface and confusing him even more. He had to walk with one hand outstretched, fingers trailing the concrete, following the other inmates from one room to another in an attempt to map out the complex. In the end, he had to stop and ask a guard where he was, receiving a rather hostile response- nobody believed he was blind, even though he'd had to submit to a medical examination before being transferred here. Apparently, his unfocused eyes, visible to all without his glasses, weren't proof enough. 

His 'vision' was a mess, shapes pinging back and forth as the sounds echoed around him, unable to place them precisely. He was tired enough that his brain was failing to put the input together into something usable. He needed his cane. He needed to _not_ be in here; there was no thought given to accessibility for blind inmates- not even any Braille signs to help him find his way: the bare fucking minimum. 

Two days. Foggy would have visitation in two days, and they would discuss the upcoming trial and how to proceed. Rikers was just temporary. Even Fisk was still awaiting his own trial; Matt had been knee-deep in preparations for _that_ when he'd been arrested, and now... well. He hadn't been officially disbarred yet, but it was coming. Hopefully, Foggy would avoid that particular fallout himself- he had yet to face charges, but it was only a matter of time. That he was able to visit at all was a minor miracle. 

For what felt like the millionth time that week, Matt wanted to scream, to punch somebody- if not for his own situation, then for the mess he'd landed his friends in. His only friends. 

This was why Stick had said to cut ties with them. If only he'd listened. 

*

He stood at the door to the communal showers, clutching a towel, and tried to make sense of it. He could hear- running water, of course, echoing off the walls. It nearly drowned out the voices of the men showering. Someone was laughing; a man pushed past him and Matt thought he turned his head to look at him, but he couldn't be sure. The sound was _too much_ , too much to wade through. He didn't want to enter, to make himself vulnerable here. Someone noticed his indecision and began to jeer in his direction, but it was tame compared to what he'd endured yesterday, before Fisk had... staked his claim. 

Matt gritted his teeth, his heart skipping a beat at the unbidden memory, of huge hands on his neck- he swallowed down the sudden flash of anger, hands curling into fists, uselessly. Fisk's 'protection' would probably keep him from being harassed here. The other inmates had kept a wide berth between them all day: in the hallways, in the cafeteria, in his brief foray to the library (such that it was). It hadn't put a complete end to the gossip, but he'd been doing his best to filter it out. Not that it had been difficult, as most of his attention was focused on not running into people as he walked. But he still heard the words here and there. 

"You should have heard him," someone had said, earnestly, from across the cafeteria at breakfast. "Fucking obscene." 

"Fuck, man, I'm trying to eat," another inmate had complained, mouth full. "Rather not have to hear about that fat fuck's cock right now. Or, you know. Ever." 

Matt had silently agreed. 

*

When Matt finally returned to his cell, unshowered and hungry, Fisk was absent. He sat on his bunk, slowly, still aching; the thin mattress wasn't much help in that area. The cell smelled overwhelmingly of Fisk, his mattress reeking of their mingled sweat and cum- 

Matt fell to his knees and shuffled to the toilet fixed to the wall, barely making it in time as the contents of his stomach came back up in a rush. It was mostly bile; he hadn't eaten for days. He sat there, numb, for some time, unwilling to move. He didn't want to get back up. He didn't want to get back on his bunk. He didn't want to sleep. He'd be locked in with Fisk again, soon enough, and he wasn't stupid enough to expect to be left alone tonight. 

He flexed his jaw, grit his teeth, and reached up to grip the sink, lifting himself to his feet, shakily. He washed his mouth out, spitting, wishing he had a toothbrush. He hadn't been given one yet; he'd taken the towel from Fisk's side of the cell (put back, unused). The only things he had were the clothes he was wearing and half a roll of toilet paper. 

It was going to be a long night. 

*

He heard the bellows of “Lights out!” echoing throughout the walls of the cellblock and even beyond, through the thick cement walls. The lights had already turned off in a buzz of florescent static, only noticeable by their sudden silence. His ears picked up the myriad small sounds that he was beginning to associate with the prison: men pacing the small cells in worn out, treadless canvas shoes, murmured conversations filtering out from between barred walls, the guards watching a television somewhere, the local anchorwoman's voice just audible. He lay back on his bunk, stiffly, and tried to focus on those sounds, so he wouldn’t have to listen to the ones coming from across his cell, from his cellmate. 

Fisk was shifting on his bunk from where he was sitting, watching. His heart was steady in his massive chest, not one beat out of place, but Matt knew what was coming. He was still sore. Last night was a jumble in his mind, half blocked out in his brain’s misguided attempt to shield him from the trauma, yet he remembered- being forced down to the bunk, chest-first on a mattress that stank of sweat and fear, the pain of being breached- the humiliation of actually _enjoying_ it enough to come. 

Fisk moved. He flinched at the suddenness of it and immediately regretted it. He couldn’t afford to show fear. He had fucked up last night, allowed his exhaustion and confusion to get the better of him, making him weak, making him _vulnerable._ Tonight he would fight. To hell with Fisk and his ‘protection’. 

He willed himself to sit up, even as Fisk’s heavy, even steps approached him, quickly closing the distance between their bunks. He was frozen, though, muscles refusing to obey. Fisk was close enough to touch, the heat radiating from his body. Then he was sitting, gently pushing Matt’s legs to the side as he lowered himself down. 

Matt felt himself swallow, hard, but he still couldn’t move. 

The air moved as Fisk reached out, slowly, and he twitched as fingers make contact with his cheek, the rasp of the pads on his stubble. The huge hand smelled of rust, like the water that came out of the small sink on top of the toilet, the industrial detergent used to wash their clothes and bedding, and underneath it the scent that was entirely Fisk, of sweat and musk, expensive cologne that must have been smuggled in to him somehow. The hand cupped his face, gentle, and Matt couldn’t help the sob that escaped him, his face hot with shame. 

“No need for that,” Fisk said, not even trying to be quiet, his voice ringing out sharp in the sudden silence that fell over their block. Matt realized the rest of the inmates were _listening_. He hadn’t really paid attention last night, too focused on Fisk, but now- he heard _zippers_ , for Christ’s sake, rustling fabric and sliding skin-on-skin of men taking hold of their cocks as they eavesdropped. Suddenly, Fisk’s behavior made more sense; he was putting on a show, playing up Matt’s helplessness, and Matt found himself baring his teeth in a sudden rush of rage. "Or that," Fisk mused, running a thumb over Matt's lower lip. 

Matt's breath caught in his chest, and his mind flashed to the memory of a hand circling his throat, squeezing, as he was fucked- and his cock twitched, shamefully, in interest. He had liked it. Jesus, he had come from it, what the fuck was wrong with him? In the daytime, with people surrounding him, it had felt like a bad dream, distant, to be dealt with later, but now- Fisk's hand was on his face, stroking, and Matt was _hard._

Maybe this was where he belonged, after all. The devil inside him had steered him here, to this place, in this moment, and Matt knew he had a lot to answer for. His sins were many, unforgivable. He'd made the mistake of thinking he could somehow rise above them, above who he was, but no. As someone had told him- you don't get into the cage with animals, without becoming one yourself. Now he was learning the truth. This was his life. He was no longer in control of it. 

"Don't," he said, voice rough and not at all commanding, as he had intended. He sounded like he was on the verge of tears, to his own ears. "I can't-" He cut himself off before his traitorous mouth could start begging. 

"Hush, Matthew," was the reply. He couldn't tell if Fisk was amused or not. His heart was still steady, his breathing even. Fisk was so sure he had nothing to fear. "We can take it easy, tonight." He shifted, and Matt's pulse spiked as he felt Fisk throwing a leg up over him, straddling him- how he managed to fit, Matt had no idea. Fisk settled slowly lowering himself down over Matt, pinning his hips to the mattress. A huge hand palmed his crotch and Matt shuddered. "I'm going to kiss you." 

Oh, Jesus. Fisk's musk overwhelmed him as he did just that, surprisingly soft, testing, at first. Matt didn't react and Fisk didn't seem to care. The hand on his cheek tilted his face, giving Fisk more access, and a tongue delved into his mouth, licking at his, trying to coax him to respond. When he pulled away, finally, Matt wrenched his head back, breathing hard through his mouth; he couldn't imagine it'd been any _good,_ with him laying there like a dead fish, but Fisk still didn't seem to care. This was all about power- about controlling him. And he couldn't fight back. He'd found that out quickly enough last night. Nobody was going to come to his rescue. 

"Doesn't that count as cheating?" he spit, his skin crawling. Fisk rumbled deep in his chest, a laugh, and canted his hips against Matt's in reply. He was hard already, the massive bulge of his cock rubbing up against Matt's with every stroke, and Matt couldn't help it, his dick seemed to have a mind of its own. He stifled a moan as much as possible, but the friction, through two layers of pants, was muted enough to keep him frustrated. 

"Vanessa knows of our- arrangement." Fisk's hand left his cheek and started pulling on Matt's pants, tugging them down. Fisk paused to do the same to his own; Matt heard the slick-wet sound of his cock being freed from the fabric, Fisk palming himself for a few quick strokes, the scent of it hitting Matt's nose, hard. 

"Really?" Matt grunted, then hissed as Fisk reached into his fly and gripped his cock. "You- actually told her how you were- fuck!- raping me?" 

Fisk snorted. "She wasn't entirely disappointed. You took me away from her, Matthew." His hand was pumping now, and Matt couldn't stop himself from arching into it, trying not to listen to the sounds bubbling up from his throat. His ears picked up a faint whisper from the cell next door, a muttered obscenity, and he grit his teeth. "It's only- fitting- that you receive your punishment from me." 

Matt gasped as a thumb stroked over the head of his cock; Fisk's fist was large enough that it engulfed it completely, so different from the sensation of his own hand, or a woman's. "Thought you said- this wasn't my- punishment," he choked out; he was already so close, his body was useless against this, oversensitive nerves firing unchecked. 

Fisk hummed. "No. Not this." And suddenly, the hand was gone. Matt whined in protest, deep in his throat, his hands flying up to his crotch to take over, only to be caught. "No," Fisk said, forcefully enough that he froze. "You don't get to come until I say you can." He released Matt, his hand coming back up to brace himself on the mattress beside Matt's head. 

Matt squirmed, trying to find friction, and his cock met Fisk's, a brief slide of skin on skin, electric. He gasped again, and Fisk ground down against him. Fisk's cock was fucking huge; he took ahold of it with both hands, testing its girth; amazed that it hadn't torn him in half. Jesus. Above him, Fisk exhaled, then reached down and pulled one of Matt's hands away, back up to his face. "Spit." 

Matt did so, and Fisk released his wrist, letting him resume. For the first time, Matt began to relax- if all Fisk was expecting tonight was a handjob, he could bear it. There were far worse ways to pass the night (overstimulated and shaking as Fisk kept fucking into him, his hole raw, the spit he'd use to stretch him open long since dried up- sobbing face-first into the mattress until he felt Fisk pulsing deep inside him, filling him with hot spurts that dripped down his thigh when he pulled out, finally-). 

He worked his hands over Fisk's cock, one over the other, fisting him tightly and grinding himself up as he did so, desperate for any friction at all. Fisk wasn't even breathing heavily; he was barely reacting at all, at this rate his hands were going to go numb before he saw any change in the other man. He squirmed some more, trying to find a better position, for something to rut up against, and Fisk finally obliged him raising himself up further, pushing a knee into Matt's groin. 

Matt exhaled in relief, but it didn't last. He felt himself getting close again, heat pooling in the pit of his stomach, hands trembling, and Fisk pulled away, the _fucking bastard_ \- too late, Matt realized he'd said that out loud, because Fisk was laughing at him. 

"Keep going," Fisk murmured, and Matt grudgingly did, eager to get it over with. He felt a turning point, finally, when Fisk's hips began to move with him, his breaths coming a little faster. "Yes. You're doing so well, Matthew." 

"Don't need the commentary," Matt muttered. His hands were aching now, and if it were anyone else he'd be marveling at their stamina because Christ, Fisk was what, in his fifties? Matt was lucky if he lasted five minutes of direct stimulation, as sensitive as he was. Maybe that's what it was like for normal people; he wasn't sure. He'd never fucked another man before. 

Fisk grunted in response, reaching back down to grasp Matt's cock. He leaned back and pushed Matt's hands out of the way and he let them fall, limply, to the mattress, as Fisk took over, grasping both of their cocks together and _squeezing_. Matt yelped in surprise, hips stuttering in the air, and Fisk set a brutal pace, stroking them together in one huge palm. Precum made them slick, Fisk's cock hard and heavy against his own, hot and grinding- Matt buried his face in the crook of his elbow, biting down hard, his other hand finding Fisk's shirt and gripping tight. "Come, Matthew," Fisk shuddered, at last, voice distressingly breathy, and Matt did as he was told- finally-

He lay panting for a moment after, hard, wetness seeping into his pants. Fisk was still heavy above him, pushing himself to his knees. He'd let go of Matt, palming himself and stroking furiously, still hard, then- 

"Fuck!" Matt recoiled, as a string of cum landed on his cheek, landing in his open eye. "You- fucking-" It _burned,_ Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, what the fuck was _wrong_ with Fisk? He flailed, managed to get out from under Fisk as the other man leaned back onto his heels, letting him up. He hit the hard floor on his hands and knees, his eye clenched shut. "You motherfucker! Good fucking thing I'm already blind!" 

Fisk was laughing, the absolute _bastard_. Beyond the cell, he could hear even more laughter- had the whole prison heard? He groaned, reaching out to find the toilet, but Fisk had followed him from the bunk. He was met halfway with a wet towel held to his face, wiping away the mess for him. 

"I apologize," Fisk said, awkwardly, as if trying not to laugh any more. "That was not my- intention." 

Matt huffed, humiliation keeping the shame at bay, for now. "Yeah, try to be a little more considerate next time you rape someone," he growled, pulling away from Fisk and taking the towel with him. He groped his way back to his bunk and sat down, leaning over to rest his elbows on his knees, and heard Fisk retreat to his own bunk. 

Well. He'd survived, he supposed. Cum in his eye wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. He willed himself not to think about what would happen tomorrow night- or the night after that. How long before Fisk was bored of this? How long before his 'protection' would be withdrawn? He gritted his teeth, threw the towel back onto Fisk's side, and lay back on the bunk. He was sore, filthy, hungry, and utterly exhausted. But he was still alive. That had to count for something. 

Right? 


End file.
